Speechless
by Abrae
Summary: There have always been words. A missing chapter from my story "Reconciliation."


There have always been words, for as long as they've known one another. Sherlock is the very soul of loquaciousness, all breakneck deduction and irrepressible commentary, and all of it punctuated by the superlatives that fall unbidden from John's tongue. But words have succumbed to touch today, the kisses of an afternoon a different kind of eloquence that leaves them both a bit lost and unsure what to say.

John enters the flat first, retreating straight away to the kitchen for a fortifying cuppa, but when he returns with steaming tea several minutes later, Sherlock is still standing by the door, biting his lip, sliding his eyes to the wall, the window, the ceiling - anywhere but John. His shirt, John notes, hangs crooked, claw-pulled snags and a missing button the outward markers of a rare dishevelment that seems to radiate from within. He's exposed, stripped of the armour of his habitual aloofness, and John's gaze absently slips to a pale bit of skin peeking through the gap in Sherlock's shirt. He stares for longer than he should, then flushes and looks away, clearing his throat.

"You might want to..." John says with gesturing jut of his chin, and Sherlock glances down at himself.

"Yes," he agrees. "I'll just -" He tilts his head in the direction of the toilet, and John nods in return. Their eyes catch, and for one breathless moment the air is rich with possibility borne of Earl Grey and aftershave, homely wool and sleek silk.

Sherlock closes his eyes with a soft pant, swaying almost imperceptibly.

"Right then," he mumbles with a nod to himself, then dashes out of the room before anything else can betray him.

And when, finally, he comes to John sitting quietly on the sofa in the waning light, he's traded sculpted waves for soft curls, suit and shirt for threadbare pyjamas and dressing gown. He settles into a well-worn groove next to John, where the press of a thigh gives way to the brush of arms, and from there Sherlock lays his head on John's shoulder, melting, by increments, into him.

John, always an acolyte to Sherlock's genius, turns celebrant now, shifting to slide worshipful hands up and under the silk of Sherlock's dressing gown, only to slip it off his shoulders. He raises his eyes to Sherlock's, speaking his intent, and Sherlock acquiesces with an aching crane of his neck, inviting lips that touch and the tongue that follows; breath coming in increasingly erratic heaves that make him gently push John away.

"Too much," Sherlock gasps; but in the next moment his mouth is on John's, unschooled - hungry and frantic - and John smiles against his lips, pulling off and tossing aside Sherlock's dressing gown, running his palms over firm biceps and the pads of his fingers down a still-thin chest. He pulls back to lift the hem of Sherlock's T-shirt up over his head, and Sherlock lets out a forlorn moan, chasing after John's warmth as he twists away with a laugh.

The Sherlock of John's few fantasies has been cool and precise, a mirror of his cerebral self. But when John turns back, Sherlock's eyes are wide, his lips red and full, debauched in a way John could never have imagined, and the sight of him burns through John's caution like so much kindling. A broken groan later and Sherlock is on his back, lifting his hips as John tugs down his pyjamas to discover he's wearing no pants. John grins, then crouches to nudge Sherlock's half-hard cock with his own length, straining under stiff denim, until Sherlock is writhing against him in naked supplication.

And John, whose love-making has always been measured - conscientious and controlled - _likes_ the feel of Sherlock beneath him, flushed skin smooth against the friction of his clothes. He'd never so much as suspected this lush carnality - white teeth peeking between Sherlock's parted lips, the taut ridge of his Adam's apple bobbing with each desperate swallow, adroit fingers grasping mindlessly at John's clothes, trying to tear them away.

John lifts up on an outstretched arm and hastily unbuttons his shirt, letting it hang open as he dips his head to kiss Sherlock's shoulder, neck, mouth. He tugs off his trousers and pants - brings his body flush against Sherlock's and releases a shaky sigh at the sensation. The look they share is the quiet eye of a storm that threatens to engulf them both; but this is where they meet - in audacity and danger, never playing it safe - and when Sherlock wraps his hand around the nape of John's neck and pulls him to his mouth, John goes willingly.

* * *

John doesn't tell Sherlock he's beautiful.

He tries - once - but Sherlock's contempt for the word is such that John never says it again. Instead he whispers it in the touch of his lips to the inside of Sherlock's wrist, murmurs it in a gentle hum against Sherlock's cock as he takes him in his mouth. _Beautiful_, he tells each eyelid, fluttering under his lips; every caress of Sherlock's skin - _beautiful_.

But beautiful comes later, after _yes_ and _you_ and _please_ and _more_, each wrenched from John by the play of Sherlock's fingers and tongue on his body. _Oh, god_, he groans through one _tightperfect_ stroke of his cock, and a sly Cheshire smile of such contentedness flits over Sherlock's face at the sound that John files it away for future exploration.

Later still words evanesce altogether as John surrenders to overwhelming sensation. The whole world is this faded place, entwined limbs and Sherlock, only ever Sherlock, clinging to him, wanton and fey. John takes them both in hand now, urgent, animal instinct devastating reason until Sherlock lets loose a low cry, arches against John and comes. The pulsing underside of his cock against John's thrusts John over the edge, and he wheezes softly as he releases the pent-up desire of months, of years between them, then collapses on Sherlock's chest with a bone-deep sigh. They are sweat and heat, a base miasma of humanness that John relishes all the more for sharing it with Sherlock, against all expectation.

And they have no need of words. Love lies unspoken between them; a sleepy touch, a lazy kiss, the way Sherlock closes his eyes and, there in John's arms, rests.


End file.
